Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Don't Talk Just Climb

I am
motionless as a spider spying upon its prey. I am stuck on a sheer column of
ice, no thicker than few inches with visible ground far beyond my eyes dare to
travel. I feel like a spider but wonder (the most irrelevant notion at that moment)
if ever a spider has ventured across icy terrains of such smoothness and
vertical travesty. Even as my eyes, though still, look for places where I could
place my ice pick, my four limbs glued to the element begins to grow weary.
Precious seconds are ticking away and all I can do is gasp, breathe, and pray
for a miracle.

With
mother Earth nearly 100 m below I am venturing upon a new ice route in the
cold frigid mountains of Colorado’s Telluride town deep end of box canyon on
one of the most treacherous and iconic winter routes of all, the dreaded
‘Bridal Veil’ graded WI 5-6 under normal conditions. It is a tottering column
of such jumbled ice sculpture that from the bottom you cannot see even 1/4th
of the way up.

Today
the conditions are appalling right out of Dante’s ‘Inferno’. This path has been
shut down by the authorities for several years when accidents started to pile
up and many of us have been waiting for it to reopen. In the past week, around
50 of the world’s craziest ice climbers had assembled in the nearby hut and
were looking for the nick (perfect ice climbing conditions). My partner of
‘crazy’ repute, the local ice magician Scott was however impatient and wanted
to be the first one to ‘bag’ the route and he wanted to make a new one at that.
It was either my naivety or my ignorance that made me pair up with him on the
spur of the moment when no one else wanted to. I should have known something was
amiss when the legendary Canadian guide, Marc shook my hands at the door with
the parting words, ‘it was nice knowing you man, we shall miss you.’

And
now, shivering within my soaking jacket I confess that I shall miss them too as
much as I would miss being alive. Of Scott and his state of mind or existence I
really didn’t care or wished to know. He is silent, and the rope from my
harness hangs loose, whipping into the breeze, disappearing a little below my
waist into the swirling gloom of snow and ice and the bone cutting blizzard. I
hope like hell that he is on the other end of the line though only a fall would
confirm it either way. The ice is brittle, swaying like a pendulum in the
hurricane blizzard. I know going down is not an option any more. Most of my ice
screws below won’t hold my weight as they are poor placements in utterly rotten
ice. I have been climbing based on the premise that I will not rappel down neither
will I rip off and that I would only keep going up till I top up. The option of
retreat was not an option any more. In fact I had no option.

Self
preservation kicks in as much as the hollowness into the pit of my stomach.
Either I am starving or I am shit scared. I opt for the first and clipping one
line into the ice axe leash; I extract the chewable chocolate from my breast
pocket and transfer it to my mouth. No point in dying empty stomach, sweetness
of death to match the chocolate. Morbidity doesn’t become me so I soon push the
thought of meeting my maker and my mind races to find an option since right now
I have none. I repeatedly shift my weight from one leg to another to keep both
moving and relatively warm. Thankfully the ice axes remain stuck and bear my
feather weight. I feel a tug at my harness and realize that my partner is still
very much alive and raring to go. I wish there was some way humanly possible to
reverse the lead. I scrape some ice, scratch the surface with the axes and then
place the picks as gingerly as I can.

I
remember the words of one of my early mentors, that on a vertical gradient, motion
is everything. No matter the direction, one must keep moving and shifting body
weight. If one remains stationary then sooner or later one would succumb to
gravity. So I move. Gingerly at first and then with some boldness but after two
strikes the ice comes crashing off into my face and head. Being near, the
impact is slight and momentary but a hail of curses floating up from below
tells me that they have found a more pliable target. I smile since it is my
revenge. I wipe clear some more sharp pointed ice daggers and throw them
carefully at the target below. More curses follow and I feel much rejuvenated.

I
start moving up, kicking steps and flinging my axes on the ice as if I danced
on a bed of raw eggs. Hanging by teeth gets a new meaning in my dictionary. My
lifelong dictum, ‘failure is not an option’ floats on the ice. I so wish that I
hadn’t eaten that full pan pizza earlier and that I am at least twenty years
younger and twenty pounds lighter.

In
action lies salvation and I decide to do only that I can. I drive away all
thoughts from my mind and soul, I obliterate every sight around me, and I
silence my mind to not speak. My entire being, mind, body, heart and soul are
focused on the ice, on the wall, on the four points of steel that keeps me
stuck. I don’t let my body feel the agony of the sheer physical strain, or my
mind the rush of fear that surrounds me like the twilight glow, or the cold
that can freeze me in moments. I suddenly become the element, ice itself and
start seeing my body from the outside. I witness the struggle of this frail
human being, as he inches up one step and one swing of ice axe at a time. Time
itself stands still. I decide not to switch pitch lead and continue pitch after
pitch. As I near the roof, the angle eases a tiny bit making it just a little
less than sheer vertical and I find my speed and rhythm.

Finally
at the end of the afternoon, two bodies roll on ice at the edge of exhaustion
and mortality. As we part company and shake hands on returning to the lodge, I
swear to myself that I would try not to repeat such insanity and never to
believe in Scott again.

If I
learnt anything that day, and if we are to find lessons in our climbs, then it
was simply that –

When
life is ebbing don’t waste time pondering, just do what you can, even if it
isn’t necessary or recommended since the journey is the destination.

About Me

As a child, i had three wishes: to be a submariner (i did), to be a published author (i did, but won't rest till the Nobel and Booker rest on my mantle) and to be a mountaineer (still trying to fulfill this one).I am otherwise a globe trotting thrill seeker and have climbed the seven summits and skied to both the poles and then some.

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BLOG FOR CLIMBING AND IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

There is a drama and beauty to be found in the world’s most hard to reach places that far exceed the intensity we experience in our normal everyday lives. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from the fact that this pure happiness is usually only achieved after suffering some great hardships. In this mechanistic modern world, our primordial instincts for survival are often left untested, driving us to seek out those places where life is still hard.